


314

by jeannedarc



Category: EXO (Band), SHINee
Genre: M/M, Sorry Not Sorry, brief mentions of jongdae kyungsoo and minseok, this is probably a mess?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-12-21 12:59:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11944752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeannedarc/pseuds/jeannedarc
Summary: Now that he’s at the scene, Jongin’s not entirely sure he should be. This might have been a mistake.





	314

**Author's Note:**

> jsyk! 314 is the police code (like 10-4, you know?) that means indecent exposure. annnnnd that's a thing i googled. hi, national watch lists.  
> for kayla.  
> thanks so much!! to [jaehwandred](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jaehwandred) for stepping in during a time of crisis.  
> i haven't written anything exo related in a really long time, and i've written any and all members of shinee approximately never, but...........hahahaha here i am sorry in advance probably

When he shows up to the scene, Jongin doesn’t even have to flash his badge (though he does it anyway, just out of force of habit). The agents already know that he’s the best of the best, that he has every right to be there, that he’s been working for at least a year just to get one foot into this ring.

Now that he’s here, though, he’s not entirely sure he should be. This might have been a mistake.

The neighbourhood is suburban as fuck; a bunch of concerned-looking people have left their houses in favour of going to see the scene of SWAT cars and uniformed agents in windbreakers and slightly more official people in suits sort of unfold in front of them. Jongin watches as a kid, who is clearly not under parental supervision of any kind, weaves his way under the crime scene tape, only to get stopped by one of the cops securing the scene. (Minseok’s taking care of this one, thank God. Kyungsoo, who’s also on the scene and cordoning things off, is a good cop but doesn’t understand discretion when taking care of one of the DEA’s little excursions.) 

Despite the fact that he’s already irritated at the sound of high-pitched giggling as the fat little nugget is forcibly hauled away, he’s forced to admit that this isn’t quite the traphouse he figured it might be.

Another kid, a skinny girl with blond hair, ducks between her mother’s legs to get a closer view of whatever’s happening. Jongin rakes his hands through his bangs, pushing them from his forehead. It’s gonna be a long day.

Already the officials are starting to move product out of the house, package by package. That little roil of regret passes through him, chilling him to the core, but only for a second. Normal people live here. Maybe he’s wrong, maybe this is just one of those deals where it’s a storehouse, and someone normal lives here.

He really believes that, for a minute, until he steps inside the house’s front door.

The furnishings? Nonexistent. Layers of wallpaper peeled from the walls, one by one, overlapping in some spots, sticking out from one another in others. Cracked windows that give a view of a dying backyard, littered in wilted flowers and with a lone, dilapidated lawn chair, the cupholder of which is cradling a rusted beer can. Clearly the drug lord running this house doesn’t spend a lot of time outside. Jongin notes all of this without really meaning to; it’s part of what makes him such a good agent.

The muscle has opened up the floor, leading to a stairway that, when Jongin follows it, ends up in an absolute hole of a basement. Who the fuck digs themselves a basement? He looks around, and apparently the only thing the bastard in charge had to do with this particular room was cocaine. The walls are even still made of dirt. Shit doesn’t make sense.

There’s about a person-sized hole made into the stacks and stacks of wrapped parcels. Jongin stares at them in a vague sense of wonder; how the hell can someone have accumulated this much business in such a short amount of time? The case might have taken a year, but Lee Taemin’s rise to the top has been a pretty damn quick one; his name only started circulating maybe a year before Jongin was assigned to the investigation.

The person-sized hole grows a little bigger as someone pushes past Jongin on their way up the stairs, nearly knocking him over, ass-first into the stairs, crudely carved and definitely sure to cause a few splinters. He winces, rubbing at his elbow, cursing the idiot who thought it’d be a good idea to potentially bruise the shit out of him.

This feels...wrong, somehow. An empty house full of coke? It doesn’t really add up, in Jongin’s estimation, and though he’s done his homework on this hellhole and the guy in charge of it, this really doesn’t seem like something in his wheelhouse. With the amount of things he knows about Lee Taemin, Jongin could probably start some kinda twisted fanclub. He knows that Taemin used to run in smaller circles, kind of a middleman until he got tired of someone else taking a cut of pay he apparently thought belonged to him. He knows that Taemin had kept his nose clean until he’d started working for just himself, stayed out of lockup despite numerous possession charges over the last few years (must have a pretty hotshot -- read: expensive -- lawyer). He knows that Taemin’s got an older brother and, more than likely, parents that care about him and haven’t heard from him in years. (He knows Lee Taemin is gorgeous, judging by grainy mugshots, Xeroxed in black and white and plastered to the walls of Jongin’s cubicle back at the office, but they don’t talk about that.) There’s more, of course, a three-file thick stack of more, sitting on his desk, but all of it adds up to this: Lee Taemin and suburbia don’t really seem to mix.

All his doubts weigh heavy on his shoulders as he climbs the stairs again; he finds himself considering the options. Three-hundred-thirty kilos of coke can’t be wrong, right? And neither can several informants, all of them looking over their shoulders during their interviews in seedy motel rooms, classic cases of mole paranoia. He’s done his fucking homework, and doesn’t want to be wrong. Even so, there’s this gentle niggling in the back of his brain, the kind he can’t get to go away no matter how many people he talks to, no matter how much poking around the house he does -- to no avail, of course; it’s really and truly empty.

His partner, Jongdae, shows up fifteen minutes late to the scene, and he is literally holding a Starbucks cup in his hand, slurping loudly on the last of his whipped cream. Jongin rolls his eyes; he’s got nothing but love for Jongdae, they’ve been working together for the better part of five years and been through a lot of shit since Jongin joined the force back then, but sometimes Jongdae does this thing where he acts like he doesn’t have a clue. Now is one of those times, and on top of the self-doubt he’s experiencing, Jongin _really_ doesn’t need to deal with the DEA agent equivalent of a spoiled teenager.

He scrubs the heels of his palms over his closed eyes, pretending the sun is shining too brightly on him. It’s gonna be a long rest of the day.

\-----

Almost a full twenty-four hours later, Lee Taemin is still in holding, waiting to be processed in. The formal charge reads possession with intent to traffic, and Jongin’s heard through the grapevine that the judge is going to be seeking the maximum sentence. This much coke adds up to life, at the very least, if not one of those ridiculous terms that makes no sense unless you’re going to live forever. People in positions of power like to prove points for no apparent reason.

The sense of doubt he felt yesterday only intensifies when his coworkers are chatting away about the bust, about the judge’s opinion upon hearing the case; Lee Taemin’s barely any older than Jongin himself, and though he’s definitely about service and protection, about the bad guys getting the justice they deserve, in this case it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense not to give him a chance at rehabilitation. But that’s why Jongin’s not a judge, isn’t it.

His best friend at work, Wonsik, a goofy motherfucker with crooked ears and one of those voices that girls must feel as a case of wet panties before they even really hear it, sneaks up on him right before lunchtime, claps his hand on Jongin’s back, dead between his shoulderblades, so hard that Jongin nearly falls right over. When he shoots one of his rare indignant glares over his shoulder at the aforementioned goofy motherfucker, he earns a bright grin in return. “Congratulations,” Wonsik rumbles, and Jongin’s glare melts into a stare of confusion. He doesn’t feel like he’s done anything really worth accolades?

“Thanks…?” He gives Wonsik his best sceptical look.

“Hey, have you been down to see the dude? The one you busted.” Wonsik pushes his fake-ass glasses up the bridge of his nose; they’re always falling off his face, probably a result of his crooked ears.

Jongin’s mouth twists into a grim kind of line. “Yeah, I’ve seen him? The hell kind of question is that? I’ve got files and files on him on my d--”

“Yeah, no, okay, but have you seen him? He’s in holding right now. There’s that secret channel, the one that got hacked a few months ago? They host it on a different server now, but I figured it out, like...I dunno, last week.” Wonsik’s doing that thing he does from time to time, where he tries to use his hands to talk, except apparently his hands don’t wanna work right, so he ends up sort of flapping ineffectually as he rambles on. “Anyway, it’s a spy cam into holding. I didn’t know if you had seen him since the bust, so I wanted to show you--”

Jongin perks up almost immediately at even the hint of an offer. “Yeah, definitely,” he agrees, stuffing his hands into his pockets as if that’s somehow going to hide his sudden enthusiasm. He’s been thinking about Taemin for days now -- technically, for a year, but it’s been an active process since the day before yesterday, when his superiors gave the order to take the house -- and he’d like to know how the guy’s doing.

He doesn’t know from experience or anything, but he hears holding cells are pretty cold and lonely places.

So in lieu of going to lunch (which is a mistake in advance, because he’s absolutely _starving_ ), Jongin ends up holed away in Wonsik’s office, browser set to an IP address that only streams surveillance of the county jail’s two holding cells -- one male, one female -- and watching intently as Taemin does absolutely nothing. It’s strangely fascinating, the things that Jongin can learn about someone even as they’re not doing anything. 

People come and go, getting processed in and set loose on their respective floors, but Taemin doesn’t seem to be going anywhere -- they’re probably doing one of those weird cop torture things Jongin spends a lot of time trying not to think about. Taemin’s got this weird smile on his face, the sort that sets little goosebumps to rising on the backs of Jongin’s arms -- it’s like he knows something everyone else doesn’t. He doesn’t speak to anyone in holding, though plenty of people try and speak to him, with very little positive result. Most of them end up pissed and on the opposite end of holding, curled up on the floor with their uniform shirts tucked under their heads.

Jongin tries his best to pay attention to these other guys, but honestly, his attention is focused on the same person it has been since yesterday. The footage he’s getting is blurry even at its clearest, which isn’t often -- reception inside the walls probably isn’t great -- but he can still make out the shape of that weird little smile Taemin’s wearing, the curve of his lower lip.

A thought occurs to him, and if he were a better man he’d probably dismiss it immediately. But the thing is, for all his acting, for all the things his fellow DEA agents seem to think of him, Jongin really _isn’t_ a better man.

So, of course, all his fixation on doing right by Lee Taemin because something about this just _seems_ off sort of comes to a point in the form of a singular idea: He would really, really like to see this dude suck some dick. Preferably his dick, of course, because he’s only human, but someone else’s would do in a pinch. He watches the footage as long as he possibly can without looking suspiciously late to clock back in at the end of lunch, but nothing even remotely similar to his sudden, dark desire happens, and in frustration, Jongin slaps at the button for his computer monitor and heads to the timeclock.

That night when he gets home he’s all pent-up tension, tries to dance it out of his limbs but it just won’t go. He also tries jerking off, which works a little better but not by much, considering he’s really not into the porn he pulls up on his laptop to aid him in the process. It’s a morbid thing of him to do, he knows it, but he pulls up that IP address he’d been watching earlier, and without any shame jerks himself to a second orgasm watching a grainy livefeed of Lee Taemin in holding.

The stream is still going when he wakes up in the morning, still half-dressed in his work shirt from the day prior and his skin itchy with the dried-up remants of his cum. He looks at his laptop as he’s undressing to take a shower and be a human being.

Lee Taemin is gone.

Jongin tries his best not to be dismayed.

\-----

The thing about booking a perp someone needs to keep track of is that, in most cases, they go off the radar for a few days between the satellite judge setting their bail and the real judge asking their attorney what they’d like to do with their few legal rights. Jongin knows that this is the case, does his best to keep busy in all possible areas of his life, but in every idle moment he’s filled with a heady mixture of shame and curiosity, all of which points right back to Taemin. He’s never even spoken to the guy, for fuck’s sake, he shouldn’t have this much of his mind occupied by a complete stranger who’s a drug dealer to boot.

But, see, the thing is, those idle moments are few enough, far between enough that they don’t distract him. No, the true distraction comes in the form of hearing rumour that Taemin has been moved from gen pop into solitary for getting into a fight with another inmate.

The shame suddenly outweighs the curiosity, Jongin realises, not regretting it at all, not even when he’s sporting a semi while filling out paperwork for a new case.

He didn’t know Taemin could fight, but the image of him with a black eye or a split lip haunts him from the dredge corners of his mind, and he suddenly can’t focus on anything, has to sneak off while everyone else is having a smoke break to relieve himself of even more tension. It’s getting kind of pathetic, he thinks as he leans against the wall of the one stall in the men’s room, fingers curled around his dick.

Something’s gotta give, he figures, zipping himself up, exiting said stall and washing the cum from his hands, which shake in a combination of deep embarrassment and tiny leftover shockwaves from the orgasm he experienced approximately two and a half minutes ago. He waits to leave the bathroom, making sure the flush recedes from his cheeks, his throat, and then gets right back to work, pushing up his sleeves and drowning himself in it.

\-----

Jongin’s new masturbatory routine gets interrupted pretty abruptly (much to his chagrin; he’s sort of getting used to the midday release and the morale that comes along with it) when Taemin gets his preliminary hearing, and he’s called to the stand to testify about the nature of his arrest. Fuck. Fuck! What’s he going to do? How’s he supposed to say that, yeah, it was a routine bust while looking in Taemin’s face?

Not like it’s his first day in court or anything. He knows better than to look at the defendant most of the time. But God, he doesn’t trust himself not to do it when Taemin’s right there and he’s spent the last week and a half jerking it to the mere notion of his face, of his mouth, of how sweet he must look taking a nice, fat cock--

Ha. Haha. Now’s not the time, Jongin forces himself to believe, pushing his bangs off his forehead and wiping off the thin sheen of sweat beneath. He tightens his tie, as if that’s the best way to turn off his own uncontrollable dick.

He’s actually brought into the courthouse a little earlier than he might normally be, and it’s then that shit gets too real. See, Taemin had just made bail the day before, so he’s technically a free man, even if he’s under watch of the state, flight risk and all that bullshit. He must be one of those responsible drug dealers, because he actually shows up to his court date, despite the fact that anyone and everyone involved in his case or paying attention to the news knows that he could very, very easily skip the country and never be seen again.

That’s where the trouble is, really. Because when Jongin shows up a few hours before he’s scheduled to give testimony about his career-changing bust, he literally runs into Taemin, tripping over his outstretched legs as he sits on the bench in the hallway, staring off into space, smiling in that weird way he does when no one is watching him.

"Do you mind," Jongin asks, righting himself by leaning on the wall, his hand just beside Taemin's head. There's no malice in his tone, because he hasn't slept nearly enough, instead going through the long and decidedly angsty process of dealing emotionally with the implications of his late-night jerkoff sessions juxtaposed with the seriousness of today. It's exhausting.

This close up, he can get a better view of the fullness of Lee Taemin's mouth, the width of his eyes, the way his fringe frames his face, and if Jongin had thought it bad before, the amount of attraction he'd experienced to someone he'd only barely met then seen on a low-quality livestream before, it's infinitely worse now.

"You're gonna tell them what happened when you arrested me," says Taemin, lifting his head a fraction to look Jongin in the eye, one of his eyebrows arched in just such a way that Jongin swears he feels a bead of sweat forming on his forehead.

"That's...what I'm here for, yeah," Jongin mumbles in agreement, looking elsewhere, stuffing his hands in his pockets and shuffling his feet.

"You don't look like you want to." There's this weird, like, wisdom to Lee Taemin that Jongin hadn't expected, something that just barely lines the edges of his words, like he's seen the secrets of the universe as someone who's sold mass quantities of drugs. Is that how the world works? Jongin wonders. Is that how you learn the way everything is, is by doing a lot of illegal shit for a lot of years?

He shrugs. "I don't, no, not really."

"You look like you have something on your mind."

I do, his mind supplies unhelpfully, but he doesn't say it, just stares at a tile in the floor, the kind with a small crack in it, probably from handling someone violent. He focuses on that thought, on how this is a place of justice, a place where awful criminals are taken to get their just desserts.

Shit, dessert. A fantasy from the previous night floats back to him, one of kiss-swollen, cherry-tinted lips, of pert nipples against pale skin and arched spines, and he's fucked all over again.

"What are you thinking about?"

Jongin lifts his head, just a little, enough to look Taemin in the eye. "Where's your guards?" Like he doesn’t know. A flimsy excuse not to do what he’s literally dreamt about for a recent stretch of forever.

"I made bail. I'm here of my own accord." The corners of his lips pull up a little further, and inexplicably, Jongin wants to...wants to...

"So you don't have to be sitting here?"

"Nope." A little more, now, the pleased wrinkles around his eyes intensifying in a way that's almost endearing. "Is there somewhere else I should be?"

Jongin swallows even though his throat is suddenly sandpaper and dry ice, and nods. "Yeah, I can think of a couple places," he answers in the weakest voice imaginable. He wishes so badly in this moment that he weren't a totally incompetent flirt, but then the nausea hits him in a nearly staggering wave, and he takes a step back.

Taemin doesn't falter once, just kind of nods. "You tell me, then."

And it’s probably the worst decision he’s made in his short, thus far, career, but he’s never really done anything in the way of pulling strings before, so clearly now’s a great time to get that out of the way.

Not ten minutes later, Jongin's got the key to the courthouse staff bathroom dangling around his neck, and they're sneaking in quietly, Jongin taking every possible opportunity to glance over his shoulder, make sure no one is following them or, worse yet, Judging Him. He heaves a little sigh when he realises that the door is closing behind them, presses his back to the wall, glances around at the flickering flourescent lighting, at the filthy mirror, at the dusty fake flowers lining the double sink...

"Perfect," Taemin says beside him, nudging him with a sharp elbow, and Jongin halfway winces, leaning across Taemin's chest to lock the door.

There's a long pause, not an awkward one because Taemin is surveying Jongin up and down like he's never seen him before, bottom lip caught between his teeth in a subtle way (that Jongin takes great care not to miss, mind). Then Jongin's shoulderblades are crushing into the wall behind him because Taemin's pinning him there, hands at his hips, mouth hovering just above his.

"You're sure, right?" he asks in a breathy little whisper that doesn't sound anything like Jongin ever imagined him sounding, not even in the deepest, darkest hours of his longest nights lately, and his breath is warm but his hands are cold as they snake up the hem of Jongin's untucked dress shirt, and--

"Fuck it," he mutters, and closes the gap between their mouths, sealing his lips to Taemin's in a fierce kiss.

They press together without any more words, just a silent agreement, Taemin's hips meeting Jongin's of their own accord and rocking against him, forcing a groan from Jongin's already-tight chest. He nips at Taemin's lower lip, just a moment, a hint of something to come, and is rewarded by blunt nails scraping down the length of his stomach, stopping just above the V of his hipbones. Just that touch alone is enough to move him from semi to full, and he rolls against Taemin, flips them so he's the one on the outside, so he can push Taemin around the way he's already been pushed himself.

Taemin gives him a look of vague disdain, but lets himself be manhandled anyway, focusing on the movement of his mouth, the perfect shape of his lips melding into Jongin's so well it's a wonder they don't become the same person. Jongin, similarly, melts, falling into him, all well-placed limbs and conspicuous noises made into Taemin's mouth, intensified when their tongues meet for the first time.

All the frustration Jongin had experienced up until now rushes out of him in one fell swoop, to the point that he has to hold on to Taemin, tight as he can, clinging to him, to their kiss, to each and every point of contact between them. He slowly, tentatively, licks his way into the warm cavern of Taemin’s mouth, fingertips pressing into his shoulders, pulling him closer, til their chests are pressed flush and he can feel the heat of Taemin’s body through his clothes.

Then Taemin gives this little shiver, and all bets are off, because as much as Jongin has secretly enjoyed masturbating to the dim light of his computer and, eventually, no light at all save the one from his own mind, the reality is a thousand times better.

He tugs Taemin’s bottom lip between his teeth, wasting no time in hooking his thumbs in the waistband of Taemin’s too-tight jeans and tugging them down just enough that he can feel the skin of his upper thighs beneath his fingertips. The contact is enough to set Jongin’s every nerve absolutely fucking humming, his skin almost vibrating at the anticipation, how it’s too long, too much. Taemin swears into Jongin’s mouth and whines a little, just a little, every movement and noise and reaction understated even as he’s tugging at the tails of Jongin’s shirt, asking silently for more to hold on to. They part, breathless, and Jongin busies himself unbuttoning his own shirt -- just for a moment, because Taemin’s hands, trembling, are right there, too, working each and every buttonhole with deliberate care, as if he knows, just fucking _knows_ that being a tease is the one way to make Jongin absolutely crazy.

“The hell are you doing,” Jongin mumbles, feeling sullied in an oddly specific way but not taking much care to put a big ol’ finger on it.

Taemin kisses him again, softer this time, though it doesn’t stop him rocking against Jongin again, forcing friction between their hips. “It’s a nice shirt,” is all he says, lips upturned in that knowing way, and fuck, if Jongin didn’t need this so badly he’d probably call the whole thing off just from that.

He’s stripped down to his undershirt, a filty off-white muscle tank, and his dress shirt is trapped around his elbows, restricting his movement. Apparently this was the plan, because as soon as Jongin realises he can’t move like he wants to, Taemin is on top of him again, shoving him hard enough to knock a bit more of the breath from him than had already been lost. 

“Seriously, the hell are you--” He’s silenced with another kiss, harsh, none of the ideas of soft edges from before even hinted at, Taemin twining his tongue with Jongin’s as he reaches up to pinch a nipple, remorseless.

“Tell me something,” he says, equally breathless as Jongin feels, speaking between kisses, between touches. “How do you feel?” He continues toying with Jongin’s nipple, almost casually, other hand going down to grab him by the ass. Jongin gasps in spite of himself, leaning back into the touch. “How do you think the other officers on my case are gonna feel if they find out what we’re doing here?” His fingers knead hard into the soft, pert flesh, sending absolute shudders up Jongin’s spine. Taemin stops with the kisses just to lean in, brush the edges of his lips against the shell of Jongin’s ear. “How do _you_ feel? How long have you been on my case? How long have you been thinking of this? Do you feel good knowing that I’m a criminal, that you’re gonna put me where I belong?” He pauses and, with great care, nips at the border of Jongin’s earlobe, a warning before taking a sharp bite.

Jongin swears so loud his voice echoes off the bathroom tiles, flushing deep enough that it burns his cheeks and throat, and he whines at all the sensation overwhelming as his cock twitches between his legs. Then he feels the fabric of his slacks shifting over his crotch, and Taemin’s hands have left his body (blessedly, cursedly) in favour of working at the clasp of his belt, pulling it open in one smooth movement.

“Or do you feel like you’re betraying your duty to serve and protect, hm?” Taemin’s whispering into the side of Jongin’s neck, shamelessly sucking a bruise into him, slow and deliberate and teasing.

If Jongin’s entirety hadn’t been aflame before, it certainly is now, and he moans, a low rumble of a sound, contained as he can be considering the fact that he’s pretty sure he’s going to explode any second. “Please touch me,” he gasps out, unable to even fathom any other words.

He feels that smile of Taemin’s grow against him, and his pants slacken, the button coming loose under Taemin’s ministrations, falling just enough to get caught at his knees.

“You do it, then,” he says, latching on to the curve of Jongin’s shoulder and not letting go.

Jongin pushes his boxer briefs down just enough to relieve the intense ache between his legs, does the same to Taemin, and forces them together, taking both their cocks in one hand and pumping them together. He rests his forehead in the hollow of Taemin’s collarbone, lips dusting there idly as he strokes them both. He ignores the ripple of pleasure that thrills its way through him at the echo of Taemin’s words, his ideas running through his own mind.

He pushes past it. He sinks his teeth into the barely-there upper swell of Taemin’s pectoral, biting down hard, reveling in the gasp, the string of swears he earns for being so bold. He flips them again, backing them both into the corner of the bathroom where the stall meets the wall, giving himself leverage, giving Taemin somewhere to go when his knees inevitably weaken.

His hand moves quicker, now, if clumsier, and he rocks into his own touch. Taemin does, too, but apparently he’s not as taken as Jongin himself, because he keeps on running his fucking mouth. “You like this, don’t you?” he asks, back of his head thudding dully against the tile behind him. “You like getting dirty with me?”

And Jongin wants to do something to shut him up but God, he’s never been good at lying, so he stutters out his agreement, the heat between their dicks intensifying as his thrusts, his strokes get sloppier.

“What about you?” he shoots back between gritted teeth, hyperfixating on the thin string of saliva between his mouth and Taemin’s skin. “You like making me this way? Turning me on until I can’t fucking see straight?” He shifts just enough to suckle at the taut column of Taemin’s throat, intent on bruising that too -- Taemin might have been kind enough to mark him where he can’t get caught, but he won’t be so conservative. He presses his thumb into the slit of Taemin’s length, digit slipping in the beads of precum forming there and sliding his palm over the mess, slicking them both up and making it that much more delicious when he resumes jerking them off.

Taemin’s breath is hitching something fierce, now, and he’s not so much coherent in his taunting, just kind of pleading, arcing up into each thrust of Jongin’s hips, each slip of his hand downward. He must be getting close, because his abs are starting to get tight, his movements less controlled, and he’s biting at his bottom lip to keep himself quiet.

Jongin pauses when he notices that, slows his movements, drawing an impatient whine from Taemin’s throat.

“Open your mouth when you moan for me,” he commands in a low voice, all those fucking years of hostage negotiation training getting put to good use here and only here. Then he’s right back to it, feeling his own release drawing near and coaxing the both of them through it.

Taemin cums first, thick and sticky and splattered unabashedly across the front of Jongin’s muscle tee, and he’s left gasping for air and shaking all over, slumped against the wall as Jongin pumps him through the aftershocks. He finishes even as Taemin’s whimpering, oversensitive, spilling over his own hand and the base of Taemin’s cock, letting go and resting against the quivering frame beneath him.

“Fucker,” he spits, trying so hard to catch his own breath that it dizzies him a little. 

He doesn’t need to look to see that Taemin’s wearing that same smile he had been before. “You liked it,” he points out, so matter-of-fact that Jongin kind of wants to choke him a little, if only he could goddamn _move_ that much. 

Eventually they collect themselves, washing their hands and dicks in separate sinks, Taemin continually glancing sideways with that irritating look on his face, and Jongin wants to give him a second round because he’s so sure it’ll shut him up. (He’s not even talking, for God’s sake.)

This is going to be the longest trial of all time, he just Knows it.

“You leave first,” he mumbles, hanging back, perching on the sink, hands wrapped around the edge as he sulks at the image of Taemin’s retreat.

“Hey,” and Taemin’s little smirk falls, his face changing into something serious even as he’s got his fingers fitted around the doorknob, “since we’re gonna be seeing a lot of each other, maybe you could do that again in a couple days?”

The suggestion is completely obscene, and that weird halfhearted guilt is eating at Jongin’s heart in the quietest of ways, but he nods. “If you don’t go to prison, I mean.”

“You’re not the only one who can get me off,” Taemin says decisively, “I’ve got the best damn lawyer in town.”

Then he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him. Jongin wants to go home and shower and never think about this again, but fuck, he’s got work to do.

That weird masochistic streak he’s got going on wonders if the best damn lawyer in town can really keep Taemin from getting locked up for the rest of his young life. And maybe, just maybe, he’s praying that they can.

**Author's Note:**

> uh so i guess you could follow me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/takoyaken) if you really really wanted?


End file.
